When you're a princess,
Everyone's eye is always on you.
Princesses are always judged,
While Queens are idolized.
One princess, in particular,
Loathed the so called "glamorous" life.
All the dresses,
The fake smiles,
Polite attitude,
The perfect example of pure hypocrisy.
While she walked through the gates of heaven,
Everyone commented on her every move.
One single trip,
Could make her land on her face,
And every witness would have yet another reason to tear her down.
None of the reasons were justifiable,
May the ones who never fall down,
Throw the first stone.
The princess had always been strong,
Known for speaking her mind,
But she had always been told to keep silent.
Act nice, polite, polished.
"One day, you'll be the queen"
They'd tell her.
No one even bothered to ask if she even sought after such thing
Her dresses were picked by a stylist,
the skirts were specially made for her.
She wore them, like she was expected to,
They were vibrant pink, enchanting, gorgeous and simply stunning.
She looked in the mirror,
Despising the princess in the reflection.
The reflection seemed hazy to her,
She had always known that mirrors only told lies.
And yet, she had to walk everyday through heaven,
After all, a princess had to be amongst the good people
and that's where all the good people are.
The good people, who always gossip,
Back stab, act two faced.
They pretend to be the princess's best friend, and secretly shred her apart.
Comments, whispers, dirty little secrets and it's all about her.
Her hair? Not silky enough.
Her skin? Not pale enough.
Her attitude? Not nice enough.
The princess tried to ignore these comments,
But couldn't help but realize that even though everybody will always be judged,
people are evaluating her image,
a fake portrait painted by a famous Artist called Society.
Walking through the gates once more,
She ran as fast as she could back to her sanctuary: the castle with guards,
Walls that could protect her from what she never was and never will be.
When she got in her room,
She ripped up her skirts, burned all of the dresses and buried her soul.
She placed pink roses on top of the grave; strangely enough there was no grief in her heart.
The flowers seemed peculiar,
Their shade reminded too much of the past,
They brought ache to her heart,
Tears to her eyes,
It reminded her of the so called princess that left.
And with her cold blooded heart and just one deep cut on her wrist,
she painted the roses red.
With one last good bye, no more tears left in her eyes,
The cut on her wrist instantly healed.
Slipping on her ripped jeans,
Tracing thick black eyeliner around her bright eyes,
Gliding the dark lipstick against her smile,
She was finally able to look into the mirror and say
"I can see myself"
She had finally turned into a queen.
Even though the peasants stared in awe,
Sending her evil glares,
She stormed through, powerful, like a queen should be.
The princess?
She was long gone.
There's only a queen strutting through the hallway of hell,
After all, there's where none of the good people are.
